


a more heavenly artifact

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canadian Shack, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Kid Fic, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, let james and francis be uncles 18k50
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: It is a bit selfish, Francis can admit. Clearly James wants nothing to do with the child; and yet here Francis is inflicting her upon him, simply for the pleasure of seeing the courageous, athletic man he loves so easily and charmingly unmanned by the whims of a six-month-old girl.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna
Comments: 24
Kudos: 88





	a more heavenly artifact

They are expecting them, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s not hard on the nerves, this whole business of waiting. 

Francis checks and rechecks the latest missive the voyageurs had brought, just days ago. The familiar neat handwriting, with its estimated time of arrival and best wishes, remains unchanged. 

“Stop pacing, Francis,” says James, effortlessly sanguine. “They’ll come when they come.” 

Francis picks up his pipe, fiddles with it, and puts it back down again; he walks over to the fireplace, pokes at it uselessly. His alarm bells, silent these long years, have started up again: he’s never been good company, has hardly any experience as a domestic host, perhaps extending the invitation was a mistake, but surely it’s too late by now to retract it… 

In the end it’s James who spots them first, facing the window in his chair, when Francis is turned away, fussing with the blankets in the makeshift bed-place he’d made up for their guests. 

James springs up and bounds to the door, with Francis on his heels, once he realizes what’s happening. 

The door is flung open, and Francis finds himself suddenly face to face with one Harry Goodsir, dressed head to toe in Inuit garments and sporting a majestic dark beard, shot through in places with flecks of silver; and beside him Silna, looking happier than Francis has ever seen her. 

All the alarms in Francis’s head evaporate as Goodsir embraces him, warm and strong and healthy. A friend, as always. “Harry,” he says, “oh, it’s been too long.” 

Meanwhile James is shaking Silna’s hand politely, almost bashfully; she accepts his greeting with grace, as does she Francis’s respectful bow. 

James eventually lets Goodsir go from his own crushing squeeze of a hello, though it’s a near thing. 

“You weren’t lying about that river crossing,” Goodsir says now, setting down his pack by the door. “Quite the trial! We were glad for the warning.” 

“What can I say,” Francis laughs. “The plan was to discourage guests— you, of course, being the exception.” 

Silna inspects their cozy abode with penetrating curiosity, pointing out the row of carvings set in a place of honor above the fireplace. 

“You recognize the style?” Francis asks. Silna nods. “Your family?” She nods again, this time with a bittersweet smile. 

Then there’s a noise— a high wail, emerging from her vicinity, but not her mouth. 

“What was that?” James leaps back as if burned. In answer, Silna turns sideways and tugs at the hood of her embroidered _amauti._ Suddenly, a tiny, black-eyed face is peeking out; fat-cheeked and drooling, with a surprising amount of black hair curled at its forehead. 

Goodsir grins. “Allow me to introduce you both to Yuka. Yuka, meet Francis. A friend. Our friend, _piqativut._ ” 

“Why, hello, Yuka,” says Francis gently, leaning in close. The baby makes a sound like _gaaa,_ a happy sound, if Francis isn’t mistaken. It’s been a fair few years since he’s been this near to a child, but after decades of practice with nieces and nephews, and a seemingly infinite supply of cousins, there are some things you don’t forget. 

With an easy motion, Silna swings the child around so she’s resting in the front of her garment, so that Francis can lean over and see her up close. He waves a greeting, and she _ga-ga’_ s back at him. 

“And this is James,” says Goodsir to his daughter in a honey-sweet voice. “He was one of the captains on my ship. _Umiara—_ the Erebus, like I’ve told you.” 

“She’s just darling,” Francis says. “Isn’t she, James?” 

James doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the child as if it were a rocket, liable to go off at any moment. 

“Might I hold her, while you look around?” Francis offers. “We’ve got the garden out back, and the observatory’s about halfway done…. If that’s alright, of course.” 

“Oh, yes, that’d be—” Goodsir begins, but then remembers himself, and looks to Silna for approval; she nods, and with his help lifts the child out of her _amauti_ and into Francis’s hands. 

They both step outside, Goodsir already chattering away about weather patterns and growing seasons, and Francis rocks Yuka back and forth, humming a half-remembered lullaby. 

When he spares a glance up, he finds James staring at him uneasily. It’s a sight, that’s for certain. His buoyant, authoritative confidence of just minutes ago has evaporated, leaving him looking comically ill at ease. 

It gives Francis an idea. After a few moments more, during which he manages to remember a few lyrics in Irish to sing down at Yuka— for what’s one more language to a child who will grow up knowing two— he looks up at James, raising an eyebrow.

“Here,” he says abruptly, “your turn,” and holds the baby out. 

“What—? No, Francis, I can’t—” he stammers, but it’s too late. Francis has installed Yuka securely in James’s arms, where she nestles comfortably, held up by strong if reluctant hands. 

“She’s not going to bite you, James.”

“How can you be sure?” James’s voice wavers, high and nervous.

“Well, she’s got no teeth, for a start,” says Francis. He’s barely managing to contain a grin; he doesn’t want James to think he’s mocking him.

“Oh,” James says, as if it hadn’t occurred to him. “Of course.”

The baby, tan and toothless, gurgles up at James. A plump little fist waves in the general direction of his hair and he tries, uselessly, to duck away.

“Francis, can you _please—“_

“No,” interrupts Francis, “I think she rather likes you. I wouldn’t dare deprive her.”

He watches with mounting delight as Yuka investigates the lock of James’s hair, subjecting it to an extensive taste test and then tugging on it, as if to see if it’ll come away. Thankfully not likely these days, with it so burnished and healthy— but its proud length does leave it vulnerable to incursions by curious infant hands.

James lets out a yelp as she pulls again, this time quite hard. “This is your fault,” he says wretchedly to Francis.

It is a bit selfish, Francis can admit. Clearly James wants nothing to do with the child; and yet here Francis is inflicting her upon him, simply for the pleasure of seeing the courageous, athletic man he loves so easily and charmingly unmanned by the whims of a six-month-old girl.

Just as he’s about to finally put James out his misery and relieve him of the baby, the cabin door opens, re-admitting their guests in from outside.

“The garden is looking wonderful,” Goodsir says. “I see you’ve taken my advice for the cultivation of—“

“Oh, thank Christ,” interjects James immediately, unloading Yuka into Goodsir's arms, which spring out automatically to receive her weight. He coos at Yuka in Netsilik as he helps her back into Silna’s _amauti,_ where she snuggles close to her mother and immediately falls asleep.

“She’s— very beautiful,” James says, and Silna beams, nodding in agreement.

“Isn’t she just?” says Goodsir, with shining eyes. Francis hasn't believed in a higher power in a long time, but he does spare a moment of gratitude to the universe for ensuring that this man, of all men, was able to become a father.

“When you next see her she’ll be walking and talking, most likely,” Goodsir goes on. “I’ll miss being able to hold her, like you were doing just now…”

Francis expects a crack from James then, some joke about how that’ll come as a relief, but instead he says, solemnly and rather unexpectedly: “Yes, I— I can imagine.”

Silna hums, and Goodsir laughs, then translates immediately— a strange, preternatural facility Francis still can’t quite understand— “Ah, yes. I suppose we’ll just have to have some more, then.”

The panic returns to James’s face at once. Clearly a waking nightmare is unfolding behind his very eyes: three children, four, maybe more, running loose about their small cabin, knocking their precious things to the floor, shrieking and diving and giggling unceasingly...

To Francis, this is no nightmare but a lovely dream, reminiscent of his own crowded childhood. And he predicts James wouldn’t really mind as much as he believes he would, should it come to pass— as long as he remembers, of course, to tie his hair back.

***

**Author's Note:**

> this fic absolutely owes a debt of inspiration to what_alchemy's [amazing canadian shack fic,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298892) which i have read SO many times at this point. 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe)


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